


Don't Let This Die

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Break Up, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart





	Don't Let This Die

Joakim manages to slip out of the impromptu party through the back door to the fire escape littered with dull green empty beer bottles and cigarette butts, still smelling as strongly as it had when he, Heikki, Matias, Onni and Osku had hung out before the show to get amped up. He’d cried then, so had Onni, and he’d cried onstage too tonight – last night he amends after checking his watch – was their home show, here in Vallila. Heikki’s last. He’s cried enough, too much, since Heikki announced that he was leaving to go to university but he’s still not over it. He’s still pissed about that too – he’s not a fucking girl. In fact, if there’s a girl in the band it’s Onni. It’s almost as if they’re a family and Heikki is a terminal patient, waiting for the big moment after a doctor has informed them that “it’s a matter of when, not if.” He still doesn’t know how to act around Heikki; what he should or shouldn’t say. He’s been going through days of avoiding him like the plague and days of making up excuses to be around and while he knows it isn’t fair to Heikki, but once, just once, Joakim wants to be selfish.

That’s the reason he’s outside. Alone. In the freezing wind. Wearing only the t-shirt he wore onstage, sweat rapidly cooling and leaving him shivering. Because someone – Heikki (even thinking about Heikki makes his stomach clench and eyes sting) or Onni or Matias or Osku will come outside too, looking for him and ask him what’s wrong and generally try to fix things. Only Joakim isn’t good at talking, never has been. It’s why he started to write poems and later songs in the first place, to let everything out and the rest he doesn’t know how to deal with gets bottled for later. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an almost empty packet of cigarettes, tossing the crumpled box to the ground and fumbles with his lighter. He’s just managed to get it lit when the steel door swings open and Heikki appears, flushed and glassy eyed, beer clutched in one hand. Joakim looks away. He doesn’t want to see Heikki who’s probably glowing right to his roots from adrenaline and alcohol. He can’t meet those bloodshot eyes either. Joakim doesn’t honestly think Heikki has any right to be tearful – after all, he’s the one who made the decision to leave. No one else did. Heikki who always has to be bigger and better and in the end, none of it was enough.

He offers a bottle of beer like it’s an olive branch and Joakim sneers, feels his top lip curl and takes another long drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke curl in the freezing night air.  
  
"Aki." The use of his nickname, this nickname, makes him start against his will and he narrows his eyes.  
  
"Heikki." The tones aren't the usual ones they'd use. Too curt, too cold - a stranger would get a friendlier greeting. Heikki bites his lip and takes a sip of the beer. He coughs a little before speaking again.  
  
"Joa."  
  
"Don't call me that. Not anymore."  
  
"Joa we can still -."  
  
"No we can't."  
  
"Joa."  
  
"I said not to call me that." It's the closest Joakim's come to wanting to hit Heikki. All those long years of friendship through school and putting their band together, long drives where they kept each other awake, recording sessions that always ended and began with just the two of them, all the shows good and bad. And somewhere along the line it became as natural as breathing to wrap an arm around Heikki mid-show and Heikki always leant back, head on Joakim's shoulder, eyes closed in rapture. Then sharing a bed on cold winter nights travelling through Europe; even if the run down youth hostel and bed and breakfast had central heating, it was nice to be close to someone again. Leaning over each other, finishing sentences. Joking around with the others and Joakim can't honestly remember when they finally began...whatever it is this is. They've never put a name to it, they've never said they're a definite article but they've - as far as Joakim knows - never been with someone else since it began. It's been him and the soft, warm skin of Heikki's stomach when he slides a hand under his shirt when they kiss, the other running through dark blonde hair, Heikki's callused hands on his hips, thumbs just rubbing gently.

He's going to miss it.

That's the whole problem. He's going to miss Heikki as more than a best friend and guitarist. Heikki's going to go to university and meet some pretty girl or pretty guy and even if he tries, Joakim knows that he'll give in. Heikki might love the band but he wants a definite future, carved in stone. Joakim can't give him that, not now, maybe not ever. It doesn't make it any easier. Nor does hearing the nickname Joa. Joa has long been whispered into his ear, against his neck, with hands on his hips, clutching his back, in his hair, fisted in the sheets. Joa isn't the man out here, drunk and bitter and scraped raw. Joa is smiles and teasing tongue and a pink flush down a bare chest. Joa is Heikki's lover.

"Joakim." Heikki takes a step closer, crowds him, holds his wrists and leans their foreheads together and tonight could be any night out of hundreds, an illicit stolen moment.   
  
"Please." Heikki sounds desperate and Joakim's will is crumbling.  
  
"Heikki." He sounds mournful and plaintive. He - the one who writes lyrics, who's so good at spilling his viscera on a stage, screaming until his throat is raw - can't articulate what he wants, what he needs. So when Heikki makes the move, angry red splotches and a muttered curse, he lets him.

Everything about this is wrong.

Joakim should be the one pushing Heikki against the wall and kissing him forcefully. He instead winces when teeth catch his bottom lip and force his wrists back into the cold, rough concrete of the wall. Joakim’s head is spinning by the time Heikki pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand the same time that Joakim explores the stinging in his bottom lip, blood and saliva glistening on the tip of his finger when he squints at it under a sickly orange security light. He almost bats Heikki’s hands away when he squeezes him through thick denim because this isn’t going to end well. Heikki drops to his knees amongst the detritus on the ground and quickly undoes Joakim’s belt, hands shaking even though he’s done this plenty of times before and at least part of Joakim is showing interest in this. He tugs the jeans and underwear halfway down Joakim’s thighs and slides his palms up them slowly, watching for any reaction from Joakim. So far Joakim’s worrying at the bloody spot on his lip and digging the tips of his fingers into the concrete behind him, making them raw and red.

Heikki lowers his head, takes Joakim in and he holds his gaze for as long as he can before shame creeps up his throat, a hot, acrid bile, and he closes his eyes and steadies his hands on Joakim’s hips and bobs his head, wishing Joakim would react more than minute thrusts of his hips no matter what Heikki does. He pulls back and reaches for Joakim’s hands, pretending that he doesn’t see him flinch and guides them to his shoulders and if he could, he’d smile when the hands slide up to cup the back of his head and guide him down a little further. It feels like the other times on tour and at home and at the studio and everywhere else in between but he still feels sick. Joakim’s still too quiet so he takes him deeper and moans around his cock as Joakim’s fingers dig deeper into his scalp and he pushes down, rakes his nails over Heikki’s scalp and lets his hips thrust up sharply. Heikki chokes and presses his palms against Joakim’s hips in protest, freezing and breathing thunderously through his nose. Joakim looks down, meets Heikki’s watery eyes and just stares at him before finally letting go, just resting his hands on Heikki’s head again, fingers twisted in his hair now. Heikki bobs his head faster, hums and moans louder because he wants this over with now. He’s choked again when Joakim comes and he jerks backwards, spitting and coughing from a sprawl amongst the litter and he can’t bring himself to meet Joakim’s eyes because he knows what they’ll reflect back at him.

He sucks in deep, shaky breaths as he listens to the rustle of denim and the whoosh of a zipper and the clink of a belt buckle and then Joakim clearing his throat. Heikki’s abandoned beer bottle scrapes over the ground and the noise goes straight to his head, making him wince as though someone’s stabbing him in the back of his eyes. Joakim’s feet draw closer and he hesitates until Heikki looks up, eyes dull and he looks strung out from the way his pupils are blown to only show a thin ring of dull grey and the angry red of the tiny little blood vessels. Joakim opens his mouth but nothing comes out so he offers a hand down to pull Heikki open. Heikki takes it and they stand and wait with bated breath until Heikki grabs him and holds him tight, knocking Joakim back, the steel door digging into Joakim's back so that he arches and hisses like a cat. Heikki's saying something, broken words and fractured sentences and Joakim grabs him, pulls his chin up and kisses him and it's everything that this isn't. It's soft and slow and sweet, beer and his come and Heikki and one numb hand resting, just resting, on heated skin and hair against his palm, thumbs rubbing circles on his hips.


End file.
